


diamond cutter-shaped heartaches

by Pidonyx



Category: Danger Days: The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys - My Chemical Romance (Album)
Genre: (even though poison doesn’t know that yet), HAHA GAY, M/M, Mutual Pining, Nonbinary Character, Nonbinary Party Poison (Danger Days), Pining, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-04
Updated: 2021-02-04
Packaged: 2021-03-15 12:00:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29188947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pidonyx/pseuds/Pidonyx
Summary: Party Poison is in the car.
Relationships: Fun Ghoul/Party Poison (Danger Days)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 30





	diamond cutter-shaped heartaches

**Author's Note:**

> i know i never do anything else but i really wanted to write pining poison again and at a different point in their relationship arc than i’ve done before so HERE i hope you guys like it this was just kinda a quick thing but i had fun. still definitely working on other projects but this was just to kind of blow off steam and destress
> 
> title from r u mine? by the arctic monkeys

Party Poison is in the car. In the passenger seat, specifically, because Ghoul had insisted (playfully, with his  _eyes_ all creased up in a _grin, Christ_ ) that it was his run and therefore he should get to drive. Poison had been trying too hard to swallow against the way his heart squeezed when Ghoul smiled at him like that to argue.

Outside of the window, where Poison’s got his forehead pressed to the sun-baked glass, Fun Ghoul is bartering with a crew of desert-rough killjoys at least twice his age and doing it without starting a fight. Poison can’t imagine doing that themself, and yeah, maybe that’s one of the things that makes Poison a little crazy about him. Then again, everything that Ghoul does at this point drives him crazy, from the way he smiles with his entire face, full-force, knocking the breath out of Poison’s lungs every time, to the way he’s currently unconsciously winding a strand of dark hair around his index finger as he negotiates.

Poison doesn’t think Ghoul even realizes how beautiful he is, the most beautiful person Poison’s ever seen and probably ever will see. It’s almost,  _almost_ worse now that Ghoul actually likes them, too. Sometimes, with Ghoul pressed up under his arm, showing him something in the newsletter he picked up that week, warm from their knees tight against each other up to where Poison’s heart is fluttering like a bat trapped in the rafters of an old shell of a building, it’s hard to think it’s less painful than when Ghoul used to shut down and turn away as soon as Poison entered the room. It is, though, if only for the swoop of bright thunder behind his ribs when Ghoul turns his warm, gorgeous eyes towards them, fond and dark brown, the color of healthy damp soil, of living, growing things.

Poison brings a hand up, fingertips resting against the dusty window overtop of Ghoul’s form, surrounded by the sand kicked up from the wind that’s been whistling across the Zones the past week. Poison doesn’t need to see his face to know what he looks like right now, though. His body language says enough, even though it makes a hot curl of shame sink in Poison’s stomach that he’s memorized the way Ghoul carries himself so thoroughly that he can recognize it at a glance. He’s laughing at something one of the other ‘joys is saying, some tall, pretty ‘runner with a purple braid trailing over one shoulder and long legs, and Poison has to actually press his other hand to his chest to try and push down the stab of irrational, unwarranted jealousy at the thought that someone else could make him light up like that, and then the following wave of guilt that crashes like a sick tide over his head, swallowing them up until they feel numb in their leather jacket and boots, where he knows the material is sticking with sweat to the bare skin his shirt doesn’t cover.

He can’t watch Ghoul’s conversation any more, not when almost everything he does makes him feel like he can’t breathe, like he’s being burned up from the inside by the flicker of Ghoul’s lashes on his cheekbones, the slight pull of muscle at the corner of his mouth when he swallows. God, his  _mouth_ _._ Poison has thought about how it would feel against their skin, warm breath and soft, slightly chapped lips brushing the back of their neck, jaw, Poison’s own, barely-open mouth. The pull of scar tissue gentle on the edge of his lips. Feeling the light sweep of long, soft hair on his collarbones. His mouth is dry, he’s shaking in the passenger seat of the Trans Am at just past noon on an unremarkable day just from thinking about kissing Ghoul — not even, just from the thought of  _being_ kissed, and Poison can feel it in their throat, the buzz of mortification. This is why he can’t be alone with his thoughts for too long these days, why he  _especially_ can’t be alone with Ghoul.

And Kobra  _knows_ this. Poison has spilled out all of their aching, guilty feelings in front of him and snuck into his bedroom on particular nights when trying to go to sleep across from the very same person they couldn’t have was too much to try and get through. That’s why it’s been so frustrating that Kobra’s been leaving Poison to go on runs with Ghoul alone, giving excuses to ditch and bringing Jet with him, Poison then left with Ghoul’s expectant, if slightly confused expression every time he’s needed a partner for an errand. So now Poison’s in the car, sweating hair dye down the back of their neck in the lack of air conditioning, waiting for Ghoul to finish up with the unfamiliar crew while thinking about his hands and mouth and eyes and laugh.

The dreams are the worst part of it, more than anything else, because they feel so real. Ones where Ghoul will look at him the way Poison is aching for, say the things he desperately wants him to say. In one particularly memorable scenario Ghoul had been on top of him, warm weight pinning their hips to the mattress, smiling with the entire night sky in his eyes and murmuring three extremely off-limits words against the curve of Poison’s jaw, and they’d blinked awake in the darkness with damp cheeks and their legs feeling like jelly. And he’d had to look over at where Ghoul was relaxed and loose in Poison’s presence,  _finally_ _,_ but firmly on his half of the mattress — the one that Poison kept putting off replacing with two for Ghoul to be able to have his own space and hoping, wantonly, that no one would notice — so decidedly not Poison’s and not interested, and try not to cry about it in a way that would wake him up.

He’d almost settle at this point for a hookup. Poison has never done that before — “that” being casual sex or picking up random people; despite whatever his carefully cultivated image would say otherwise — but it would be close enough to what he wanted (or as close as he could possibly hope for) if only to have Ghoul kiss him, even if it didn’t mean anything. Or it would be, except that something tells them that they wouldn’t be able to let it go. That he’s been snagged, already so in love that he would let Ghoul do almost anything with him even if it felt like having his heart ripped out of his chest afterwards. Head underwater before they even realized it, now coming in a circle to dangle in front of them things they can’t have. He can’t let Ghoul see him vulnerable, stripped to the bone, and come away from it facing the fact that Ghoul doesn’t reciprocate.

Ghoul wouldn’t, though. He doesn’t do quick fucks, and he’s — he’s a fucking  _gentleman_ _,_ the way he holds open doors for them or helps them over dunes with a gentle grip on their hand like he doesn’t even notice he’s doing it, like it’s not a big deal. The way he treats them like he’s concerned for Poison’s comfort, like he wants them to be happy even after the way Poison has treated him. That’s an entirely different problem, how he makes Poison feel like a stupid swooning damsel in distress from one of Jet’s westerns; except for the fact that he  _likes_ it, so much more than he should, blushes and holds tighter to Ghoul’s fingertips and gets flustered at any earnest sentiment or expression of fondness like he really is one of those girls that don’t do anything except gush about how handsome the hero is with airheaded smiles while they hide behind the hem of their bonnets. It’s not  _fair._ They’re supposed to be  _Party Poison_ _,_ and Party Poison doesn’t become a dumb flirty giggling  _mess_ the second a pretty guy bats his eyelashes at him. Except, apparently, he  _ does. _

Poison is so caught up in his own brooding that they almost don’t notice when the driver’s side door opens, until Ghoul slides into the car smelling like sweat and sunshine and he’s guiltily jerked out of his own head. Ghoul doesn’t seem to notice, since he smiles at them, starting the car up with a sputter and then a rumble, engine purring to life. Instead of starting to drive, though, he sits for a second, hands on the wheel, still looking at Poison. “Hey,” he says, then, and Poison really doesn’t have an excuse not to look at him anymore, so they do. Ghoul’s cheeks are flushed rosy from the sun, dark hair sticking to his cheeks, but he doesn’t seem fatigued at all when he looks at them fondly, head tilting a little. If anything, he seems a little energized, almost extra cheerful, and the stab of jealousy returns full-force before Poison can smother it again, and at some point he’s started talking to them so they scramble to tune back in to whatever he’s saying. “Anyways, sorry about that. Didn’t really know how long that was gonna take.”

“‘S okay,” Poison says back. They fiddle with the zipper on their jacket to give their hands a distraction. His tongue still feels dry, and he can’t tell if it’s because he’s thirsty from sitting in the hot car for so long, or because Ghoul is still considering him with warm, gentle eyes, pretty mouth pulled up at the corner. He licks his lips. “Don’ mind.”

Something in Ghoul’s expression shifts minutely, such a slight change that it wouldn’t be noticeable if Poison wasn’t spending most waking moments looking at or thinking about his face. It’s not sad, more like thoughtful, and it’s impossible to tell what he might be thinking. Poison’s fingers twitch with the urge to gnaw at his thumbnail. “Thanks for doin’ this for me,” Ghoul says finally. His lips are still curled around a smile, almost enough to press a dimple into his unscarred cheek. “I like when you come with.”

Poison has to make a conscious effort to not let heat rise to their cheeks, and they’re not quite sure they manage it. “‘Course, Ghoulie,” he replies, trying to make it sound easy and not flustered, tugging on a strand of his own hair. “‘Course, I like hanging out with you.”

That’s enough to stretch Ghoul’s smile into a real grin, and Poison tugs on the chunk of hair again. He still looks pleased when he shifts the Trans Am into drive and eases the car back onto the hard-packed sand from the cracked parking lot he was meeting the other crew in. He reaches over to bump the back of his hand against their upper arm. Poison’s skin tingles where he touches it. He bites his tongue and knots his hands together in his lap, squashing mercilessly down on the urge that desperately wants the fingers tangled with his to be Ghoul’s.

It’s quiet in the car for a bit, the only noises the hum of sand under the wheels and the heavy growl of the old engine under the hood. Poison almost jumps when Ghoul speaks again, in a quiet voice that just barely carries over the other sounds. “You can hold my hand if you want.”

Poison doesn’t look over at him, fighting a losing battle against the blush trying to spread over their cheeks, and Ghoul doesn’t look away from the road ahead, but Poison hesitantly, carefully reaches out, blindly finding Ghoul’s hand where it’s hovering in the air almost like he was waiting for them. They tentatively curl their fingers around Ghoul’s, though when Ghoul turns his hand in theirs to lace them together he grips back just as strongly. His palm is warm, callouses pressed up against the soft skin of their own. Poison tries to calm his heartbeat so Ghoul won’t feel the way it’s fluttering, the way everything in Poison’s stomach region is twisted up in airy, elated knots from the feeling of his hand in theirs and the gentle thump of Ghoul’s own pulse in his wrist. Poison wants to press it to his mouth, kiss the veins twisting like blue electricity under the skin. They can’t voice any of that, though, obviously.

So Poison doesn’t say a word, and neither does Ghoul. They just keep their eyes fixed on the desert racing past outside the window, afternoon sun beating in, bleached pavement of the Getaway Mile stretching out alongside the dunes they’re flying through, and holds Ghoul’s hand as tightly as he dares the entire long, dusty drive home.


End file.
